


Warms The Coldest Night

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fear artifact? Maybe!, Jon is a humbug, M/M, Mythology pick-n-mix, Porn With Plot, Seasonal weirdness, Sex Pollen, Winter Solstice, but also consent, consent is important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 16:26:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17124761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: "Flame that warms the coldest nightBring to us the waxing Light,Be with us on Solstice Night."Gypsy - Bring Back The LightThere is mistletoe hanging in the doorway to the Archives when Jon gets in.





	Warms The Coldest Night

**Author's Note:**

> This was partly inspired by Terry Pratchett’s Hogfather, which is my favorite book to read this time of year. Except with much more sex, and far fewer witty asides. Set in some nebulous timeline where season one never ended, because I love the original Archives crew so much. All the songs quoted here are real Christmas carols, which I spent a lot of time listening to while writing this. Don’t worry too much about which Fears (if any) are at play here; I certainly haven’t.

 

There is mistletoe hanging in the doorway to the Archives when Jon gets in. He scowls at it. As if the near-constant darkness this time of year wasn’t bad enough, people have to start plastering enforced jollity over it all. Mistletoe and fairy lights and tinsel, like they can make winter’s dreariness more tolerable by dressing it up. 

There is Christmas music playing inside, not loud but distinctly audible. Jon looks around to see if he can spot whose desk it’s coming from. Normally he would blame Martin immediately, but this doesn’t sound quite right for Martin, less Band Aid, more wassailing and bleak midwinters. There is more mistletoe in here too, clusters of white berries and pale green leaves, entwined with fir branches and glossy, dark green ivy that trail over the walls. Jon’s fairly sure his staff have better things to be doing than decorating, and if not he clearly hasn’t been giving them enough work. 

Martin walks past with a mug of tea as Jon approaches his office. 

“Morning, Jon,” he says cheerfully. “Shortest day of the year, today!”

“About time,” says Jon. “Turn that music off, will you?” 

He shuts the door, and looks around to see that his office has been subjected to the seasonal vandalism too. Bunches of holly hang in the corners, fat red berries and waxy, cruel leaves, sprigs of ivy and fir coiling around and through them.

“Honestly,” says Jon. This goes beyond tiresome to actually annoying. This is _his_ office, nobody has any call to go decorating in here. He’ll talk to the others about this later. Right now, though, this needs to come down. Jon has to climb on his chair to reach the foliage, and it is pretty firmly adhered to the wall - what on earth did they use to attach this? He yanks at it viciously and eventually it comes away, though he almost falls off the chair in the process. One of the needle sharp leaves scratches his thumb, deeper than he would have expected. Tiny droplets of blood ooze from the wound. 

“Ow,” says Jon pointedly, and loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be listening outside. Then he stuffs the armful of foliage into his small waste paper basket, filling it past the brim, and gets to work. The heady, green scent of plants permeates the air as he works, and he can hear music drifting in from outside, _oh the rising of the sun, and the running of the deer_.  

Jon spends the morning reading up on a rather interesting case involving the Church of the Divine Host, the details easily drowning out any minor irritations in the background. Eventually, however, the growling of his stomach becomes impossible to ignore, and he decides to take a break for some early lunch. He glances at his watch and is surprised to see it’s almost two o’clock. Usually by this time in the day Martin would have brought him three cups of tea and made at least a token effort to drag him to the canteen for lunch. Not to mention Tim or Sasha would be bound to have stuck their heads in at some point to bother him for something. 

He can hear them in the next room, voices talking and laughing over the ceaseless sound of Christmas music, so they haven’t all gone out on case research. Maybe they’ve finally learned to leave him alone while he’s working. Jon opens the door and sees the three of them gathered around Sasha’s desk, where they’re laughing at something on her computer screen. A sudden wave of bitterness washes over him. They could have at least let him know how late it was getting, while they were out here having fun and apparently not working. The cut on his thumb stings sharply. 

“Hey boss,” Tim greets casually as Jon walks out of his office. Martin and Sasha turn as well, leaning on each other and still giggling. 

“Jon, you should see this video,” Sasha says, waving him over. “It’s really funny - ”

“I’m going to get lunch,” Jon says. “When I get back I’d be very pleased to see some professionalism in the office. The Institute _does_ pay you, as far as I know.”

Sasha clamps her mouth shut, looking stung. Martin says nothing, eyes downcast, and Tim shrugs carelessly. Jon sweeps past them and heads for the stairs, past the mistletoe that is now hanging all around the doorframe. _Here we come a-wassailing,_ a voice sings, _among the leaves so green._

It’s slim pickings in the canteen at this time of afternoon, and Jon makes do with a distinctly unfestive turkey-and-stuffing sandwich and a cup of coffee. The annoyance simmers down as he sits there, and he starts to feel bad for snapping at Sasha. He’s had a headache coming on since this morning, and the overpowering greenery smell in the Archives isn’t doing it any favors. Still, they do work hard - even Martin, for all his faults, tries his best - and they’re entitled to a bit of down time now and again. It’s good that they all get along, for morale and team spirit and all that. 

Jon immediately rethinks that opinion when he comes down the stairs to the Archives to find Sasha and Tim kissing in the doorway, encircled in mistletoe, the berries gleaming white as bone. Tim’s back is to the doorframe and Sasha is on her tiptoes with her hands on his chest, and Jon _really_ tries not to take in all those details in the instant of shock before he manages to speak.

“Oh for heaven’s sake” he says, “This _is_ still a workplace, as far as I'm aware.”

They break apart unhurriedly, holding each other’s gaze for a few long moments before they both turn to him, flushed and grinning, hazy eyed. Tim’s arm is still stretched around Sasha, his hand resting on her hip. 

“Sorry Jon,” says Sasha, though she doesn’t sound very contrite. 

“Yeah, sorry Jon,” says Tim, sounding extremely pleased with himself. 

“Did you two go to the pub at lunch or something?” Jon demands.

“No,” Sasha says, “No, honestly, sorry. It was just a bit of a laugh, you know, the mistletoe and everything. I suppose we got a bit carried away.”

“I don’t think we got to the carried away part,” Tim leers and Sasha stifles a giggle. Jon shakes his head in exasperation.

“Keep it for after work in future,” he says. Tim salutes flippantly. Jon heads back towards his office. 

It’s warm, he notices, warmer than it ever gets down here in the winter, even with the heat turned all the way up. And there’s an odd quality to the light in here, an amber glow almost like firelight. Probably some new energy efficient light bulbs, Elias has been very keen on the whole environmental friendliness thing lately. Someone’s been putting up more greenery, bristling fir branches and thickets of ivy crawling over the shelves and walls. The front room of the Archives is hung with mistletoe, white berries gradually giving way to holly’s crimson in the back. Jon hopes they’ve been getting this legally, not just helping themselves from someone’s garden. 

The Christmas music is still playing as well - he knows he told Martin to turn that off - but Jon doesn’t recognize the song, a lilting, cheerful tune about blood on snow and the sun’s ascent. Not exactly traditional Christmas fare, as he knows it, but then what people think of as “traditional Christmas” isn’t really all that traditional, is it? Far older rituals, for the most part, with new names and beliefs bolted onto them. 

He runs into Martin as he approaches his office. Martin has a garland of mistletoe hanging around his neck, and a sprig tucked behind his left ear. He’s taken off his jumper in concession to the heat, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to the elbows. 

“Oh, hi,” says Martin, smiling like he’s genuinely pleased to see Jon. “How was your lunch? I just dropped some files off on your desk.”

“Right,” says Jon. “Thanks.” He feels very warm, suddenly. Did it get warmer? 

“I think we’re heading out to the Christmas party around four,” Martin says, hesitant. “Are you, umm, going to come?”

“Oh is that, uh - ”

“Today, yeah,” says Martin. He looks flushed. The mistletoe hanging around his neck smells fresh and green, and the berries have a peppery, pungent scent. The light colored hairs on his bare forearms are, Jon notes, almost golden in the rich light.    

_Tomorrow shall be my dancing day_ , a man’s voice sings, _I would my true love did so chance_. 

“You, uh, have some - mistletoe,” Jon points out. Martin flushes darker and touches a hand to the garland self-consciously. 

“Oh, haha, yes,” he says. “Sasha made it, she said I should be a bit more...seasonal? I know it’s unprofessional - ”

“No, no,” says Jon, “It’s...it’s fine. It’s Christmas.”

Martin smiles, and takes a step forward. It really is getting very warm. The smell of the mistletoe is heady, almost overpowering. Jon feels light-headed. 

“So, are you going to come?” Martin asks. He’s standing very close.

_Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love_ , bids the music. Jon shakes his head, and steps briskly past Martin towards his office. 

“Uh, maybe,” he says, “For a little while. I have a lot to do. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you there.”

He manages to not quite slam the door.  

It’s a lot cooler inside his office. Jon shuts his eyes and lets the cold air wash over him, clearing his head. He can feel his heart beating a rapid tattoo against the inside of his rib cage, drumming in time to the music that drifts through his closed door. It is far too hot out there, absolutely stifling. Elias will have to get the heating looked at. He opens his eyes again.

“Oh for goodness - ”

The walls are swathed in green, ivy and fir and dark blades of holly, the berries so ripe and shiny they look ready to burst. The air smells crisp and fresh, like a forest after snowfall, alive with the fragrance of growing things. And underlying it a faint tang that catches in the back of Jon’s throat, metallic and familiar. A surge of resentment rushes through him. So it’s _Martin_ who’s being doing all this, probably in some misguided attempt to get Jon into the festive spirit. He has absolutely no right, and he _lied_ to Jon about it. Dropping off files indeed. And then trying to cajole him into the Christmas party, which he _knows_ Jon has no interest in. 

Jon’s thumb is throbbing again and he scratches at it irritably, hissing as the wound opens up. He presses it against his mouth and swipes his tongue over it to lick it clean, tasting the coppery heat of blood. Then he climbs on the chair and starts pulling at the nearest bunch of greenery. It is stuck just as firmly as before, but Jon yanks furiously at it until clumps of ivy and holly start to come away in his hands. He keeps tearing at it, littering the floor with leaves and berries, but there seems to always be more green, the holly snagging at his hands until blood is oozing from a dozen fresh scratches. 

Finally he gives up in frustration, breathing hard. He’ll make Martin take it all down tomorrow - in the morning, when he’s hungover. For now, Jon has work to do, even if nobody else around here does. He sits back down at his desk, snatches a paper off the pile - which, all right, it seems Martin did put here - and starts reading. 

Somewhere in the back of his head, a tiny voice whispers _this is wrong_ , but it is drowned out by the crooning of carols and the heavy smell of evergreens. 

Jon’s watch tells him it’s near six o’clock by the time he surfaces again from his reading, and it is _cold_. He can see his breath fogging in the air, and realizes that he is shivering. He gets up and pulls on his coat, which is hanging on the chair behind him. The greenery is thicker and more verdant than ever, scarlet berries and jagged leaves dripping with condensation, ivy creeping down onto the floor and coiling around the leg of his desk. That is...not normal. The green smell is stronger now, resinous and cloying, the sweet, metallic odor lacing through it that, god, tastes like blood in his throat. 

He opens the door to his office. The Archives are dimly lit, a rosy glow like the remains of a dying fire. Dark, shiny foliage is strangling the walls and furniture, weighted with fat, red berries. Every so often one drops to the floor with a small, soft _plop_. There is still music playing, but it sounds now as if it is coming from very far away. _Du grünst nicht nur zur Sommerzeit,_ it sings solemnly, _Nein auch im Winter, wenn es schneit._ Jon takes a careful step out of his office. A slow, creeping sensation slides up his spine as he does, a feeling like being watched.

_Not watched_ , supplies something deep in his hindbrain _. Stalked_. The scratches on his hands sting all at once. 

He hears a low sound from behind him that might just be the central heating pipes wheezing, but which sounds far more like something large letting out a long, hot breath. Jon slams the door shut without looking back and walks briskly forward, mentally talking himself away from the brink of panic. This is a strange situation, yes, there is definitely something wrong, but he can’t let his imagination run wild. He needs to find the others, if they’re still here, and get out. Then they can figure out what to do about this. Who do you even report something like this to? Will Elias know?

The further he gets from his office, the balmier it gets, and he starts to see mistletoe sprouting alongside the holly, white berries almost glowing among the dark swathes of ivy and fir. By the time he gets to the front room, the holly has entirely disappeared and mistletoe dominates the walls, long stems of it crawling up along the ceiling, light turning the berries to vivid gold. Martin is sitting at his desk, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head and his eyes shut, humming along to the music. 

“Martin!” says Jon sharply. He opens his eyes and smiles broadly.

“There you are,” he says, his tone fond. “I was just about to come looking for you. Tim and Sasha already left - ” He squints at the wall clock. “ _Ages_ ago. I said I’d wait for you, because I thought you’d get distracted by work, and you did promise you’d come to the party for a while.”

“The party?” Jon says, “What on - haven’t you noticed what’s going on here?” He waves his hand at the overgrown walls. Martin takes a slow look around, still smiling. 

“It’s nice, isn’t it? Very festive.” 

Jon sighs. Whatever is going on here is clearly affecting his assistants. Which, now that he thinks of it, explains Tim and Sasha’s behavior earlier. Well, Sasha’s at least. Tim canoodling at work isn’t exactly shocking, but Sasha is more professional than that. Jon is starting to feel a pleasant warmth as well, all his muscles wanting to relax and sway along to the distant strains of music. He shakes his head. He needs to get Martin and get out of here. 

“All right then, Christmas party!” he says as enthusiastically as he can. “Let’s go!”

Martin gets up, beaming.

“I knew you’d have fun if you gave it a chance,” he says. “You don’t have to be the boss all the time, you know?”

“Right,” says Jon, herding him towards the stairs, “You can tell me all about it when we’re at the party.”

The doorframe is so thick with mistletoe now that it brushes Jon’s cheek as he steps through. The scent is overpowering, spicy and wild. Martin, a step ahead of him, suddenly turns, halting Jon in the doorway. Jon has always known that Martin is a couple of inches taller than him, and a lot broader, but has never been so acutely _aware_ of it as he is now, standing almost chest to chest and looking up at Martin’s face, his mouth. Martin licks his lips nervously, and Jon feels his face go hot, his heart rate picking up. 

“I just wanted to say,” says Martin, “Thanks, for coming along tonight. It, umm, it means a lot. To me.”

“I, uh, I’m glad - ” Jon manages to breathe out, though exactly what he is glad of goes unarticulated as Martin leans down and kisses him. Jon tips his face up and lets himself be kissed, returns it with an eagerness that startles him, pressing the kiss deeper and slipping his arms around Martin’s neck to pull him closer. _In dulci jubilo,_ the music choruses joyfully, _Nun singet und seid froh!_

Jon can hear the pulsing of his own blood in his ears, can feel the strong, fast beat of Martin’s heart against his own, nothing separating them but the fragile boughs of their ribs. He presses forward as Martin’s arms encircle him, wanting more, _closer_ , this feeling of life and heat and joy that surges through him, wanting to drown the little whisper in the back of his head that _this is not right,_ hears himself moan low and wanting against Martin’s mouth as that internal whisper rises to a shout. He drags himself away from Martin’s warmth, the sense of loss almost a physical pang.

“Wait, Martin - ” he gasps, holding his hands up to put space between them as he gets out of the doorway.

“What - ” says Martin, halfway between bewildered and upset. “Jon - I - oh, sorry, I - ”

“No, no,” Jon says, “It’s fine, it’s just - we need to go outside. I’ll explain everything outside.”

Jon leads the way up the stairs to the main Institute building, which so far seems to be free of the mistletoe invasion. He is trembling faintly as he walks. That was...overpowering, and terrifying, and utterly intoxicating. He’s not sure he’s ever experienced such an absolute loss of inhibition. 

The building is quiet, dark and cold. Jon heads for the side door they use outside of business hours, which opens onto a small side street. As soon as he opens the door, Jon can tell things aren’t right. It is utterly silent outside other than a breeze rattling through leafless branches, no sounds of people or traffic from the main road. The ground is covered in a thick, white layer of snow, crisp and perfect, which would be unremarkable, except that the weather has been far too mild for snow for weeks. 

The sky is black, stars winking cold against the velvet darkness, and yes, Jon remembers, _shortest day of the year_. Martin told him that this morning. There is, however, the slightest hint of color staining the horizon, a red darker than berries or blood, dark as the secret heart of some terrible beast. Beside him, Martin huffs out a breath that clouds in the air, chafing his hands over his arms. He’s still in just a shirt, and starting to shiver. 

“You should have brought a coat,” says Jon. 

“It, umm, didn’t really seem important at the time,” Martin replies. He hesitates a moment, then:

“Jon, what’s going on? Things are a bit - ”

“I’m not sure,” says Jon. “Something’s...wrong, down in the Archives. It, uh, it had an effect on all of us.”

Martin glances away, though in the dark Jon can’t see his face. He knows his own is flushed with embarrassment. He clears his throat awkwardly. 

They walk around to the front of the Institute, and things here are very wrong. It is six o’clock, and there is not a single person on the street beneath the red-black sky. The road is empty of traffic, and the cars parked against the footpath are all empty. Shop and restaurant doors are shut, their windows darkened. Only street lamps shine coldly on the pristine snow, devoid of any footprint. 

“Where is everyone?” Martin asks in hushed tones. 

“I - I don’t know,” says Jon. He has a creeping suspicion that _everyone_ is exactly where they are supposed to be, and that he and Martin are the ones missing. 

“Do you think Tim and Sasha - ”

“I don’t know, Martin. But we need to try and find them, if they’re caught up in this too.”

“They were heading for the Christmas party,” says Martin. “At the Thistle? It’s just around the corner.”

Jon is aware of the pub, enough to know it’s a popular after work spot for the Institute’s employees, but he’s never been there himself, so he lets Martin lead the way, walking briskly in the chilly air, snow crunching beneath their feet. 

“Have you, uh, been hearing music all day?” Jon asks as they walk, partly as a distraction from the deafening quiet, and partly to make sure it wasn’t just him who’d heard it.

“Oh, yeah,” says Martin. “I meant to ask - was that your CD I found?”

“What CD?” Jon asks intently.

“I, umm, I dropped my pen this morning and when I was getting it I spotted a CD under the shelf. Christmas music. Sort of...traditional? I thought it might be Sasha’s first - since she’s into classical. She said it wasn’t hers, but maybe it was yours. She might have been joking. Anyway, Tim said we should put it on, so I...did.”

“And then the mistletoe started appearing?”

“...I think so?”

“Martin…” Jon says, pained, “Haven’t you ever heard that you shouldn’t load random CDs into your computer? Especially when you work in an Institute that deals - at least on occasion - with _actual_ supernatural objects?”

“Oh god…” Martin groans. “It looked like a proper CD, though, it was labeled and everything. I’m such an idiot - ”

“It’s...not your fault,” Jon sighs. “You’ve read enough of the cases, these things tend to just...happen. If it hadn’t been you it would have been someone else.”

“So what do we do, then? Destroy the CD?”

“Maybe,” says Jon. “I, uh, have no idea, honestly.”

They keep walking. A few minutes later Martin comes to a halt in front of a pub, dark and shuttered like all the other businesses.

“This is it,” he says. Jon tries the door, which is locked, while Martin peers in through the windows. Nothing moves inside. Well, they had to try. 

“Sasha!” Martin shouts to the empty street, hands cupped around his mouth. “Tim!”

Jon has the sudden urge to shush him, a thrill of fear through his hindbrain that he can’t place the source of. Ridiculous, of course, there’s nobody else around to hear. That’s the whole problem. Except then he hears it, a low, steady sound that is not the wind, and is definitely not the central heating, a sound like something large breathing slow and heavy in the night air. His spine goes rigid.

“Martin!” he hisses, “Quiet!”

“What?” Martin starts to ask, but then his eyes widen as he hears it too. He turns in a circle, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound. Jon clamps a hand on his arm. 

“I think we should get back to the Institute,” he says tensely. “Indoors.”

Martin nods, and they hurriedly retrace their steps, as fast as they dare. _Don’t run_ , something is whispering in the back of Jon’s head, _If you run, it will hunt._ From the look on Martin’s face, he knows it too. 

They follow their own tracks back to the Institute, their footprints the only scars on the perfect snowfall. Every so often Jon hears something that might be a hoof crunching in the snow, or a low, wet snort, conjuring up images of some great beast stalking their trail, its vast bulk steaming in the cold night air, all horn and bone and rough, bristling hide. Jon wishes he could convince himself that it’s just his imagination running away with him, but in this empty snowscape, beneath the cold, merciless sky, his usual skepticism is failing. Beside him, Martin’s face betrays a rising fear that echoes Jon’s own. 

The Institute is as dark as all the other buildings, but the side door is still accessible. Jon locks it behind them, fumbling the bolt closed with numb fingers. He leans against the door and takes a few deep breaths, trying to clear his head. When he looks up, Martin is standing with arms wrapped around himself, looking anxious.

“What do we do now?” he asks, voice wavering slightly. 

“I think we have to go back down to the Archives,” says Jon. “Destroy that CD, as you suggested.”

Martin nods, seeming heartened by the acknowledgment. He squares his shoulders resolutely.

“We need to do it quickly, though,” says Jon, “Before it starts to, uh, affect us again.”

“Right.” Martin’s face colors a little. “Definitely.”

Jon goes first as they head back down the stairs, walking cautiously. He sees the golden blush of the lights as they approach, and almost at the same time hears the strains of music floating towards him through the green-wreathed doorway. 

“Let me go through first,” he says to Martin, and steps quickly through the archway of mistletoe, holding his breath against the intoxicating fragrance.

The front room of the Archives is scarcely visible now, subsumed in a thick carpet of plant growth. The smell of fir needles and resin lies heavy on the air, overlaid with the peppery aroma of mistletoe. Warm contentment immediately starts to settle low in Jon’s stomach, and he pushes it aside grimly. _Our bowl it is made of the white maple tree_ , sings a chorus from far away.

“Wow,” says Martin, who’s stepped through and is looking around the room with amazement. “This is going to take some clearing up.”

“Where’s your laptop?” Jon asks. 

“Should be on my desk,” Martin replies, and it is, although buried under a tangle of mistletoe stems that cling to it greedily. Martin tugs it free with some effort. He pops open the tray and removes the glossily labeled CD. _Here's to our mare, and to her right eye_ , the choir sings.

“It’s, umm, it’s still playing,” says Martin. 

“Smash it,” suggests Jon. Martin drops it to the ivy-covered floor and brings the heel of his shoe down on it, heavily. There is a sharp snapping of plastic, and Martin stamps on it several more times, breaking it into smaller shards. 

_Who tripped to the door and pulled back the pin,_ the choir gloats, _for to let these jolly wassailers in_. The plants continue their silent, exuberant growth. 

“Now what?” asks Martin. 

“I, uh, I don’t know,” says Jon. He’s starting feel terribly warm again, and it’s hard to think. It’s the heady fragrance of the mistletoe, the ember glow that casts the room in shades of bronze, throws gold across Martin’s skin and in his hair. 

“We should go to my office,” he says. It’s cooler there, less distracting. Even if he did first hear that...sound, back there. Martin bends to pick up the pieces of the broken CD, his shirt stretching appealingly over his shoulders as he does. Jon swallows hard.

The temperature grows cool as they walk into the back room, towards Jon’s office. The sharp scent of the holly displaces the mistletoe, and Martin wrinkles his nose at the thick, coppery tang that underlies it. The greenery is more oppressive here, somehow, crowding around and through the shelves, heavy boughs of fir swaying low over their heads as they walk. The music is still playing, _dame, what makes your ducks to die, ducks to die, ducks to die,_ a lilting chorus of voices and flutes over the dull drone of a bagpipe. It grates on Jon’s ears, and _god_ , won’t it ever _stop_.

Jon’s office door is thrown wide open, and its interior has entirely disappeared into a thicket of holly bushes, gnarled roots gripping the floorboards and masses of spiky green leaves pushing out through the doorway. Jon can feel bitter coldness emanating from inside, wisps of icy mist winding between the holly branches as the leaves drip moisture. And from its heart he can hear the low, harsh breathing of whatever rough beast has stalked them here - no, has _always_ been here. Has always been everywhere in the dark and cold and snow.

“I don’t think we should go in,” says Martin hesitantly. Something in Jon snaps and he wheels, livid.

“What’s _your_ idea then?” he demands. This is all Martin’s bloody fault, the least he could do is come up with something, not just follow Jon around like a lost puppy. Jon’s hands burn, like he’s just thrust them into a nettle patch. He flexes them angrily.

“I - I don’t know - ”

“No, I didn’t think so,” Jon sneers. “What exactly do you think is going on here? This isn’t just some, some botany accident. We’re trapped here - wherever here is - and if we don’t figure this out we will _die_ here, and _you. Don’t. Know_.” 

_Their wings are cut_ , the choir sings gleefully _, They cannot fly, cannot fly._ Martin blanches, shrinking in on himself, his eyes wide and hurt. Then his gaze moves down.

“Jon,” he says, “Your hands…”

Jon looks down. The scratches have reopened, wider and deeper now, long wounds scored into his flesh. Blood is flowing freely over his fingers, dripping onto the carpet of foliage and, he sees with nauseating clarity, trickling steadily across the floor towards his office, pooling around the coarse, twisted roots of the holly. He stares in horror for several long seconds until Martin’s hand grasps his arm, tugging him away from the door. 

Martin leads him through the rows of shelves to one of the reading tables, and presses him down into a chair. Jon doesn’t protest. He feels sick, a sour, metallic taste in his throat, and his head is swimming. 

“Put your hands over your head,” Martin tells him, “It’ll slow the blood flow. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

“No need,” Jon says. The bleeding has already diminished to a lazy ooze, the edges of the wounds sealing themselves together again. 

“That’s, umm,” says Martin. He still looks pale and distressed. Jon feels like a monster. 

“I’m sorry,” he says wearily. “What I said - I think it’s part of the, the effect of this place. That’s no excuse, but - ”

Martin shakes his head. 

“It’s all right,” he says, “I’m, feeling it myself if I’m honest. Sort of...scared and angry all at once?”

“Hunted and hunter,” Jon says. “Among the winter holly. It’s a, uh, a rather ancient mythology.”

“And, umm, the mistletoe?” 

“The other side of the winter myth,” Jon says with a humorless laugh. It is all becoming very clear to him now. “Life and fertility. It always comes down to those two, in the end. Death and life, blood and sex. It’s all very id.”

Martin sits down in the other chair, looking solemn.

“Sasha and Tim,” he says, “Do you think that - _thing_ \- ” He breaks off, unable to finish the thought.

“What time did they leave?” asks Jon.

“I, umm, I think around half four?” 

“Then I think Sasha and Tim left before sunset on the solstice. Early enough to not get caught up in, in whatever _this_ is.”

“So you think that’s it, then?” says Martin, “We just have to wait for sunrise?”

Jon looks down at his wrist. 

“I - no, I’m afraid not,” he sighs. “Because my watch has been telling me it’s almost six o’clock since I first came to find you. I’m afraid it’s the longest night, and it’s not going to end by itself. Not for us, at least. The, uh, the old rituals, they weren’t just celebrations. The people who performed them truly believed that they were necessary to bring back the light. That without them, the sun would not rise again.”

“What does that mean?” Martin’s voice is small and uncertain. Jon hesitates, desperately trying to think of a way to not say what he knows he has to. 

“As I said,” he finally manages, “Death, or life. What waits in the holly is death, and what waits in the mistletoe is, uh, life.”

He pauses to let it sink in. Martin’s eyes widen as the implication hits him, and he swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing.

“Oh,” he says. Jon would like nothing more than to disappear right into the floor now, please. 

“I mean,” he says, “I don’t have any proof, just deduction, based on what I know and everything that’s been happening. But, well, yes. I think so. It, it _feels_ correct, in a mythic sort of way.”

“We have to - in there?” Martin sounds utterly miserable, and Jon can’t help feeling a little offended at that, for all he’s not too thrilled at the idea himself. He’s not _that_ repellent, and Martin had certainly been eager enough under the mistletoe earlier. He squashes that train of thought as extremely unhelpful. Martin hadn’t been himself earlier, neither of them had been.

“Look,” he says, “I know it’s...bizarre. If this was just - just me trying it on with you, I wouldn’t make up something so elaborate.”

“I know that,” Martin scoffs. “I mean, you’re not exactly the sort to - _that_. It’s just, what about your office? That - thing?”

“I, uh, I don’t think it can leave the holly, if that makes you feel any better? Holly and mistletoe seem to represent sort of, opposing forces, or - or desires or something. I think we’re safe, next door, as much as we can be.”

Martin nods slowly, looking wild eyed and anxious. Jon sighs.

“I understand if you can’t,” he says. “Believe me, I know it’s...a lot, to put it mildly. I don’t usually - ” He stops himself. A detailed explanation of his own sexuality probably isn’t needed here. “I - I don’t want to force you into anything. We can try to figure something else out - ”

“No,” says Martin firmly. “I - got us into this. If you think this is what we need to do, then, okay. Only - ” He pauses, seeming to consider for a moment, then takes a deep breath. “If - if we weren’t in this situation, would you ever - want to? With me?”

Jon’s brain searches frantically for a way to easily explain how he rarely ever wants to with _anyone_ , but that when he _does_ want to it’s nothing to do physical attractiveness and everything to do with a sense of emotional intimacy he can’t possibly have with one of his employees, while trying not to sound like he’s making some flimsy _it’s not you it’s me_ excuse. 

“I just - ” Martin continues, looking wretched. “I don’t want to do this, and then - then you can’t look at me after.”

Jon feels a stab of sympathy, and he catches Martin’s gaze, looks him firmly in the eye as he speaks.

“That won’t happen,” he says. “Whatever happens, I promise you, that is not an outcome.”

Martin drops his eyes and nods minutely.

“All right,” he says, “If you’re sure.”

Jon is far from sure, for all he puts on a good face. His stomach is doing uncomfortable flips at the prospect. It brings up unpleasant memories of university, the attempts he’d made with virtual strangers because it was the normal thing to do, and he didn’t want to be _weird_. It is...not a good association. Not that Martin is a stranger, and not that he isn’t very nice - and it had certainly felt natural, earlier, when they kissed beneath the mistletoe. Intense and intimate. And that’s the problem, isn’t it? That level of intimacy, being imposed on him - on them both - by some external, supernatural force. It makes Jon’s skin crawl to think of it. So, he tries not to. 

He steels himself and stands up, and then extends a hand towards Martin, because if he is going to do this it is going to be on his own terms. 

“Ready?” he asks, heart skittering in his chest.

“Umm, not really,” says Martin nervously, and takes Jon’s hand.

They walk hand in hand through the tangled grove of the Archives, through the drip of mist and the green respiration of living things, the acrid scent of blood that fades into fragrant heat as creamy mistletoe displaces the violent red of the holly. _Follow me in merry measure!_ the distant music trills, and Jon thinks that if there is some intelligence behind all this, it could be a little less obnoxious about its triumph. Martin’s hand is cold, and as the balmy glow of the mistletoe starts to seep through him, Jon unthinkingly squeezes it in his. 

At the threshold of the front room, Martin stops, and Jon turns back to him. 

“I, umm, when I asked you, about if you’d ever - want to?” he says. “You should know that - that I would. Want to. Aside from all this.”

_Oh_ , thinks Jon. He tries desperately to think of something to say, but he’s never been any good with feelings, his own or other people’s. As he hesitates, Martin gives him a smile that is equal parts sad and resigned.  

“It’s fine,” he continues, “I just, thought you should know. Before.”

Jon doesn’t know if it’s the warm glow of the mistletoe or the look of resignation on Martin’s face that does it. Whatever it is, he finds himself tugging Martin towards him, and backing them both through the doorway.

“It’s all right,” he says as he does, although he doesn’t quite know what he’s saying that about. “It’s all right. I promise.” 

The front room does not exist anymore. Instead it is a glade at dusk, the curved limbs of fir trees bending low, the low orange light of a dying fire cast across their branches. Ivy and mistletoe twine together across the walls and ceiling and floor, a mesh of dark and light green leaves crawling over every surface, embracing everything they touch with gentle insistence. The mistletoe berries swell ripe and pale in the golden light, secreting their constant, heady aroma, all ginger and heat. Jon feels the warmth flowing over him, rising up inside him, comfort and joy and desire all together. He can feel Martin’s hand still cold in his and wants to warm it up, wraps his other hand around it and chafes it gently between them. _Look now,_ a solo voice sings, low and honeyed, _for glad and golden hours come swiftly._

“It’s all right,” he repeats, and Martin smiles again, happily this time, his eyes bright and affectionate. Jon likes that better, he doesn’t want to be the reason for Martin to be upset. He likes Martin, likes him very much, and he wants… He _wants_... He leans forward, swaying up onto his tiptoes because Martin is that much taller, untangles his hands from Martin’s and rests them on his shoulders, and then presses his mouth gently to Martin’s, as much a question as a kiss. Martin’s parted lips say _yes_ , his tongue pressing into Jon’s mouth, hot and slick and stifling Jon’s sigh. 

Martin’s arms go around Jon, pulling him tight against Martin’s broad form, and Jon leans into it, seeking the heat of his body, chasing that feel of Martin’s heartbeat against Jon’s, the pulse of hot blood between them, muscle and bone and desire. Every inch of Jon’s body is alive with desire, yearning towards Martin, wanting _more_. They kiss deep and fervent until Jon’s lips are swollen and tender, wrapped in the golden glow of the glade.  

It’s good, but it’s not enough, and at last Jon breaks them apart and starts to unbutton Martin’s shirt. Martin tries to do the same to him, but it’s awkward and they get in each other’s way, and they laugh and begin tugging at their own clothes instead. Jon strips faster than he ever has in his life, his hands trembling with eagerness. He thinks he should feel self conscious about his pale and skinny body, the fact that his dick is already painfully hard, but he doesn’t. Martin is looking him up and down with an expression halfway between reverence and hunger, and he likes that very much. 

Martin’s naked form is bulky and solid, his fair skin flushed across the chest and neck, his dick hard and dark red. Jon wants to push close against him again, but he thinks of something better.

“Come here,” he says, grasping Martin’s hand and leading him across the room to the door where they had first kissed, what seems like so long ago now. The archway of mistletoe surrounds them, encloses them in soft leaves and that heady, euphoric scent, and where Jon should be able to see the stairs out of the Archives beyond, all he can see is a sea of lush green. He should probably be concerned about that, but right now all he wants is to get close to Martin again, because he has never been so aggressively aroused in his life. He feels like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. 

He winds his arms around Martin’s neck and kisses him again, pulls them close together and feels an electric jolt as his exposed dick brushes against naked skin. He feels Martin’s dick pressing against him too, hot and hard, and Martin’s hands come up onto the small of his back, then move down to his buttocks, squeezing and kneading, and Jon groans. He slides his dick against Martin’s hip, rubbing greedily in a way that he would definitely find embarrassing if he had it in him to care. He starts to press kisses to Martin’s face, his jaw, his ear, moving down to his throat where he sucks hard kisses into the tender skin, using his teeth, feeling the hot pulse of blood right below the skin. Martin is moaning, his hands roaming up and down over Jon’s back and buttocks and thighs. Jon presses closer, keeps rubbing his dick against Martin’s skin, and god he thinks he might come like this, but then Martin presses him back against the soft curtain of mistletoe, putting space between them, breathing hard. 

Jon wants to protest, but Martin is looking at him with such desire that he can feel it curling in his belly, warming his skin. His dick is throbbing from the contact between them, he was so _close_ and he desperately wants Martin to touch him. It seems as if Martin can read his mind, because his eyes drop to Jon’s dick, and he smiles. 

“You’re so gorgeous,” Martin says solemnly, and takes Jon’s dick firmly in his hand, wrapping his fingers around it. It’s too much, after the clumsy brushes of contact before, and Jon feels himself start to orgasm at the first stroke of Martin’s hand, helpless to stop the tide of sensation flowing through him. He pants and moans through it, his dick spurting over Martin’s fingers for long seconds as pleasure pulses through his entire body, from teeth to toes, more intense and lingering longer than he’s ever known before. 

By the time it ends he is gasping and weak, his body trembling with the aftershocks. Martin is looking at him like he’s done something amazing, and then Martin lifts his fingers to his mouth and begins to lick and suck them clean of Jon’s semen, hungrily, like he’s savoring it. Normally Jon would find that a bit weird, but now he can’t stop watching, his eyes drawn to Martin’s mouth, tongue sliding over his fingers, and Jon feels a tiny twitch go through his spent, flaccid dick at the sight. His eyes wander down, across Martin’s flushed chest and down to his dick, dark red and curving up from his pelvis invitingly. Jon drops to his knees in the lush carpet of ivy below, and presses his face against Martin’s pubis, shutting his eyes and just inhaling the sharp musky smell of his arousal. Martin’s hands come to rest on his head, running gently through his hair, over the back of his neck. 

Jon turns his head so Martin’s dick presses against his cheek, and rubs against it like a cat, the hot silky skin sliding against his face, sending a low thrill through him. The musk smell of arousal is almost overwhelming, laced through with the mistletoe’s heady fragrance, and Jon’s mouth waters. He brings his hands up to brace on Martin’s hips, and places a firm kiss at the base of his dick. Kisses up the length, wet and open-mouthed. The head of Martin’s dick streaks wet across Jon’s cheek and Martin whimpers. Jon opens his eyes at last and looks up, sees Martin’s flushed face looking down at him, hair falling over his forehead and eyes hazed with desire. 

“Lovely,” he sighs, and slips the head of Martin’s dick into his mouth, feels it resting velvet and heavy on his tongue, his mouth watering more than ever. He suckles tentatively at it, hears Martin moan, and pushes forward, more and more of the hot, hard length filling his mouth. He only stops when he feels the head bumping against the back of his throat, his mouth stretched wide in a way that would be uncomfortable if it wasn’t so exhilarating. He breathes slowly through his nose, adjusting to the sensation, and Martin’s hands are brushing his cheeks, his fingers shaking.

“Jon,” he murmurs, “God, Jon, you’re amazing, you’re amazing.” Jon glows at the praise and starts to move, slipping Martin’s dick out of his mouth as far as the head, then back in again as far as he can, slick with his own saliva. He feels wanton, sucking and slurping around the hard length in his mouth, drool trickling out the corners of his mouth and down his chin but he doesn’t care. All he cares about are the noises Martin is making, high whining gasps and sighs, his erratic breathing, his hands petting frantically at Jon’s hair. 

Martin’s hips jerk forward unconsciously, nudging his dick deeper down Jon’s throat, and Jon moans. He can feel his own dick starting to harden in response, arousal curling warm in his stomach far sooner than should be physically possible. Martin’s hips keep moving in messy counterpoint to Jon’s motions, and Jon slips his hands around from Martin’s hips to his buttocks, urging him on. He feels Martin’s dick start to twitch in his mouth, slides his tongue around the head and sucks it deep into his throat as Martin comes, gasping and groaning. Hot semen floods Jon’s mouth, bitter and salty but sweet as honey to his tongue, and he swallows it greedily. He keeps sucking until every last drop is gone, chasing the remains with his tongue, and Martin keeps stroking hands through his hair and over his face as his dick softens in Jon’s mouth. 

Finally Jon releases him, and Martin drops to his knees so they are face to face again. His breath is still quicker than normal, spots of color high in his cheeks. Jon’s dick is halfway to hard again, his body tingling with arousal, though less urgent now than earlier. Martin’s big hands cup his face and Martin kisses him, sweetly and carefully, and Jon’s entire being yearns towards him. The floor is a thick bed of ivy and mistletoe, soft and springy, and Jon leans back, pulling Martin with him, until they are lying side by side in the lush, yielding greenery. 

“I want you so much,” he murmurs, and kisses Martin again. They kiss deep and unhurried, knowing they have all the time in the world, this endless velvet night in the winter grove. He can still hear music, but now it is the sound of distant drums and flutes, voices chanting in some unknown, joyous tongue. A part of Jon can feel the alienness of all this, the fact that this intimacy, this closeness and arousal and joy, is not _his_ , is coming from somewhere outside him. But a larger part of him doesn’t care, and all of him is terribly glad that it is Martin here with him, because Martin is kind and gentle and Jon trusts him. Jon rolls onto his back in their bed of leaves, pulling Martin over onto him so Martin’s body lies warm and heavy over his. Martin laughs at his insistence and Jon wraps his arms around Martin, holding him close so they lie heartbeat to heartbeat. 

He can feel Martin’s interest rekindling as they kiss and caress, his dick starting to harden against Jon’s inner thigh, and he smiles against Martin’s mouth. The distant singers rejoice with him, their mysterious chant rising to new heights of euphoria, as Martin presses forward against him, his dick nudging gently between Jon’s buttocks, and Jon shivers, his own dick jumping eagerly at the prospect. He spreads his legs with no hesitation or self-consciousness, and Martin groans low against his mouth, his hips rolling forward experimentally.

“Can I?” he asks Jon solicitously, stroking a hand across his face.

“Please,” Jon almost moans, with a desperate yearning he would be mortified by any other time. But right now Martin needs to know just how much Jon wants him, and Martin’s eyes go soft when he says it, hazy with need. He kisses Jon again, deeply, and then crawls down Jon’s body trailing soft, reverent kisses from the hollow of his throat all the way down to his belly. Jon’s skin feels alive with touch, and it seems that every nerve in his body is wired directly to his dick, which is now fully erect and craving again. 

Martin noses against his pubic hair for a moment, then licks a long, wet stripe up Jon’s dick, from base to head. Jon whimpers. His dick is tender and aching after coming so recently, and Martin’s tongue feels like fire and balm all at once. Martin chuckles softly, and licks him again, and then drops his head between Jon’s splayed thighs, running his tongue down over Jon’s balls, then eagerly drawing one into his mouth. The sensation rolls through his groin, low and pleasurable, and then Martin’s mouth moves lower, licking beneath his balls and sliding down to press in between his buttocks. 

Jon gasps at the first tentative lick to his hole. This isn’t something he’s ever really felt comfortable letting someone do, but right now it seems like the best idea in the world, and his dick agrees, swelling harder than he thought possible. Martin is making little noises of delight as he works his tongue inside Jon, gasping enthusiastically. He pushes Jon’s thighs further back and apart to get more access, and Jon spreads them as open as he can, curling his hands into the foliage to prevent from touching his own throbbing dick. He thinks he might come right now if he touches it, and he doesn’t want to yet, not when what Martin is doing is so wonderful. 

He feels fingers start to press alongside Martin’s tongue, slick with Martin’s own saliva, not pushing in yet, just teasing and stroking at his rim. He groans at the probing touch, and Martin begins to carefully slide his fingers in, just one at first, then two and three in quick succession as he sees how easily Jon accepts them. Jon feels boneless and euphoric, he doesn’t think he could tense up if he tried, and his body takes everything Martin wants to give him. The sensation of being touched from the inside is strange at first, and Jon squirms as Martin’s fingers fill him _(“You’re doing so well,” Martin murmurs, “You’re so wonderful.”)_ but as he adjusts to the feeling a low heat rises in his belly, uncoiling slowly up into his dick, which is twitching and seeping pre-ejaculate steadily. 

Finally, Martin’s fingers retreat, and Martin’s face reappears, looking at him with an expression of hunger and adoration as he kneels over Jon’s quivering body.

“All right?” Martin asks, and Jon nods frantically.

“Yes, yes,” he insists, “Please, Martin, please, I want this so much, please.”

“Oh god,” says Martin, licking his lips like a starving man confronted by a feast. He licks his hand and starts to rub it on his dick, but Jon shakes his head, twists around and sucks Martin’s dick into his mouth, saliva washing over his tongue at the hot, heavy feel of it, the musky scent of Martin’s arousal. Martin groans softly as Jon swallows his dick far as he can down his throat, letting it choke off his breath, and then Martin pushes him gently away.

“Stop,” he gasps, “Stop, or you’ll make me come.”

His dick is glistening and slick with Jon’s saliva, and part of Jon wants to just open his mouth and make Martin come down his throat again, feel the pulse and heat as semen floods his mouth. But more of him wants to feel Martin’s dick pressing into his already stretched and tender hole, so he lies back and spreads his legs again, bent at the knees so his feet lie flat on the floor. Martin kneels between his thighs, his entire body blushing and sheened with sweat. He runs a gentle hand down Jon’s chest, over his racing heart, and the blunt, hot head of his dick nudges up against Jon’s hole, pressing just a little. 

“Yes, Martin,” Jon gasps, and Martin pushes forward, centimeter by centimeter. It is...more, than fingers and tongue, intense and overwhelming, the feeling of being stretched out and made full at the same time, and it sends low jolts of pleasure up through Jon’s groin and belly, making him moan with abandon. He thinks he’s going to come without being touched at all, his dick throbbing and leaking. Martin is panting by the time his dick is all the way inside Jon, and he stops for a moment, looking down at Jon with tousled hair and flushed face and eyes hazed with lust. Right now he’s the most beautiful thing Jon has ever seen. 

Martin begins to fuck him, slow and careful, and Jon moans at each spike of sensation as Martin’s dick presses on the right spot inside him. Martin is gasping nonsense words as he moves, and Jon can hear his own name in there, repeated over and over. Jon hitches his knees up to his chest to give Martin a better angle, and Martin leans into it, driving his dick even deeper into Jon so he whimpers helplessly. Jon reaches his hands up to pet aimlessly at Martin’s chest, his shoulders, his face, and he knows he’s talking nonsense himself, can hear himself gasping _sun_ and _life_ and Martin’s name. Martin is pressed close to him now, close enough that Jon’s dick is sliding against Martin’s belly with delicious friction, close enough that Jon can kiss him messily, both of them groaning and babbling against each other’s mouths. 

The unseen voices are chanting in ecstasy, the drums rising to fever pitch and the flutes trilling joyously, and Jon feels the mistletoe winding around their conjoined bodies, entwining and embracing them as they rock together feverishly. He feels Martin’s hips pushing frantically against him and Martin moans desperately into his mouth as his dick jerks inside Jon, and it is too much, Jon’s dick starting to pulse semen over Martin’s belly as he clings to Martin’s shoulders and he is coming and coming. 

Afterwards they lie curled together beneath a blanket of mistletoe and ivy, warmed by the lush heat of the glade and by each other. The music has died away to a satisfied background humming, and the smoldering ember light casts the room in shadows and honey. Jon gradually feels conscious thought reasserting itself, the all-encompassing overload of sensation ebbing away. He is sated and comfortably exhausted, and though he knows he should probably disentangle himself, he somehow can’t find it in himself to want to move. Martin is lying behind him, arms around him and nose pressed into Jon’s neck. Martin’s chest rises and falls gently against his back, lulling him, Martin’s breath steady and warm on the nape of his neck. Jon waits for it to start being awkward, but all he feels is content, and relaxed. He falls asleep still waiting, wrapped in warmth and affection. 

Jon wakes cold and disoriented, and blinks slowly, trying to figure out where he is. It comes back to him as he takes in the dark shapes of desks and shelves, the cold wood under him. The only source of heat is lying heavy against his back, which, right, _that_ happened. He sits up carefully, lifting Martin’s arm off him and looking around. The grove of winter greenery is gone, and the room is silent, which he can only hope is a good sign. He squints up at the wall clock in the dim light. It reads almost nine, but he has no idea if that’s morning or night. He feels refreshed, as if he’s had a full night’s sleep, but without the stiff soreness he’d expect from sleeping on the floor. Or any of the other soreness he might have expected from their rather strenuous activities.

Jon gets up and starts gathering his clothes, which are strewn across the room haphazardly. 

“Martin!” he hisses sharply, “Wake up!”

Martin snuffles, turns over, and opens his eyes blearily. 

“What - ” he begins, and then goes wide eyed as he realizes where he is. He goes bright red, and immediately starts hunting for his own discarded clothing, not making eye contact except to awkwardly hand over one of Jon’s socks. Jon can’t help glancing at him as they dress, seeing the livid bruise at the base of Martin’s throat, coloring with embarrassment as he recalls with great clarity how eagerly he had given Martin that mark.

“It, umm, it looks like it worked?” Martin ventures once they’re both dressed. “The music’s stopped, at least, and the plants - ”

“It does,” Jon agrees. “We should go outside, though, and make sure.”

They walk through the doorway to the stairs, and Jon feels his face heat at the recollection of the mistletoe archway, what had happened beneath it. He feels a rush of relief as he gets upstairs and sees gray winter light coming in through the windows. It’s morning. The Institute is still empty and quiet, though, which is a little unnerving. If it’s almost nine, he would expect at least some people to be here. He turns to see Martin standing at one of the windows, looking at the street outside.

“I can see people out there,” he reports excitedly. 

“That’s - that’s fantastic,” says Jon. Martin turns to him, a smile on his face that dies away rapidly as awkward tension spools out between them. Jon clears his throat uncomfortably.

“Look, Martin,” he begins, “About, well, last night - ”

“It’s fine,” Martin says, “I mean, I’m fine, if you are. It’s not a big deal, right?” The overly bright tone of his voice, and the fact that he still won’t meet Jon’s eyes tells a different story than his words. Jon opens his mouth to say something - exactly what he’s not sure - when the door opens, and in walks Sasha, Tim right on her heels. 

“Morning,” yawns Sasha. She is holding an extremely large takeaway coffee cup, and Jon thinks she might be wearing the same clothes she was yesterday, though he’s not great at that sort of thing. Tim, who is holding an equally large coffee and wearing sunglasses, gives a slow grin. 

“What happened to you two last night?” he asks with a leer. “Never made it to the party, wearing yesterday’s clothes - although that’s not too much of a stretch for you, Jon. Did you have your own private party here last night?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon says, feeling a slow flush creep up his neck to betray him. “I worked late and slept on the camp bed.”

“Mm-hmm,” Tim says skeptically, “And what about you?”

“I - wasn’t feeling well,” Martin says hastily. “Decided to go home instead and sleep it off.”

“And wear the same clothes today?”

“I wasn’t really feeling up to doing a wash last night, and I didn’t have any clean clothes. This was about the best of it. And anyway, what about Sasha? _She’s_ still wearing the same clothes!”

“Don’t drag me into this!” Sasha protests. 

“Sasha couldn’t get a cab, so she stayed at my flat last night,” says Tim smugly. “Since it’s walking distance. But I was a perfect gentleman.”

“Let’s not get carried away,” snorts Sasha, and takes a long drink from her coffee. 

“I _did_ offer you the bed,” Tim says. “And I let you use the shower first, since we had to be in at a ridiculously early hour. It’s practically cruel and unusual punishment.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” says Jon. “You _should_ be at work by now.”

“Nobody else had to suffer like this,” Tim proclaims dramatically.

“The, uh, the party ran pretty late last night,” Sasha explains. “All the department heads told their staff to come in later today.”

“Except our boss wasn’t there, so here we are at silly o’clock, ready to work.”

“Your dedication is duly noted,” Jon says dryly. “And speaking of work - ”

The rest of the morning passes without incident. Jon’s office is, thankfully, back to normal, as are the rest of the Archives. Sasha and Tim don’t seem to recall anything strange about the previous day, or at least neither of them say anything if they do. Tim puts on a Christmas music album, and Jon is almost grateful to hear the cheesy strains of Wham! and Michael Bublé. Sasha comes by his office twice to ask about cases she’s working on. The only thing missing is Martin popping in with a cup of tea or to ask if Jon wants anything from the shop, and something in Jon is remarkably aware of the absence.  

The rational thing to do, he knows, is ignore it and wait for things to go back to normal. He and Martin are both adults. Colleagues have one night stands all the time - it’s practically a tradition at office Christmas parties - and still manage to work together. Admittedly, it’s usually a byproduct of drinking too much, rather than some supernatural solstice compulsion, but the end result is the same. Martin just needs a bit of space, and things will be fine. It’s fine. 

Except, Jon remembers the look on Martin’s face last night. _I would want to,_ he’d said, and Jon doesn’t think he was just talking about sex. He doesn’t know why Martin would, would _fancy_ him. It’s not as if Jon is particularly nice to him. He knows he can be impatient and irritable, and is probably far too harsh on Martin’s occasional blunders, when Martin honestly is pretty good at his job, most of the time. Martin is always nice to Jon, though. Brings him tea, and always checks if Jon needs anything before he leaves for the night. Wanted Jon to come to the Christmas party last night, as if he actually likes spending time in Jon’s company. 

It has always bewildered Jon, and he’s always pushed back against it, because nobody is that kind for no reason. People always want something. In this case, though, it seems that the reason is, well, _Jon_. It’s...a new concept.

It continues running through his head the whole morning, as he tries and fails to concentrate on the files he’s reviewing, and at half past eleven he finds himself standing by Martin’s desk.

“Jon, hi,” says Martin, scribbling furiously on a notepad and not meeting his eyes. 

“Come on,” says Jon, “We’re going out for lunch.”

Martin doesn’t say anything, just puts down his pen with a resigned air and grabs his coat. Jon ignores Tim waggling his eyebrows suggestively as they leave.

They walk out into the crisp winter air, warmed by the midmorning sunshine. He takes them to a small café a few streets away, where he usually goes when he doesn’t want to be bothered by anyone. They pass a group of carol singers on the way, collecting money for charity. _The holly and the ivy,_ they sing, _When they are both full grown._ Jon thinks if he never hears someone sing about holly again it will still be too soon. In the café, he sits down across from Martin, who is immediately very interested in reading the menu. Jon has no idea how to do this. 

“Martin,” he says at last. Martin glances up at him, and there is something pleading in his eyes.

“It’s fine, I told you earlier,” he says. “We _really_ don’t need to talk about it.”

Jon sighs. 

“Look,” he says, “I’m...not great with people, as a rule. Relationships. _Intimacy_. It’s never come naturally to me, so I’ve found it easier to just, sort of, _not_. I, don’t like very many people, or - or trust them, much.”

Martin looks like he’s going to say something, but Jon pushes on. He has to get this out before he loses his nerve.

“Last night,” he rushes out, “I trusted you, in a way I rarely trust anyone.”

“That was just the mistletoe - ” Martin interrupts, shaking his head. 

“I trusted you first,” says Jon, “To - to let that happen, between us. I _trust you_. And, I like you. I know I can be - harsh, at times - ”

“An arse,” Martin interjects, and Jon has to concede.

“Yes, fine,” he says. “The point is, all this - it’s very new to me. But, well the solstice is over, so it’s a new year, technically.” He gives a nervous laugh, then continues: “I - I’d like to try.” 

Martin looks up and finally meets his eyes, a mingled expression of hope and disbelief on his face. 

“If this is just because you, you feel _sorry_ for me or something - ” he begins, and Jon shakes his head vehemently. _No._ He reaches across the table and grasps Martin’s hand in his, pleading. 

“It’s not,” he says. “I can’t promise anything, and honestly I think you could do better, but I want to try this. If you do.”

Martin stares at him for several long moments, and then, slowly, his fingers entwine with Jon’s, and he smiles. 

“I’d like that,” he says, just as the waitress walks up to ask if they’ve decided what they want. Jon feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he lets it settle there. 

“I have,” he says. Martin’s hand squeezes his warmly.

Outside, the carol group sings _joy to the world_.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry (belated) Solstice!


End file.
